The first warriors had nearly reached me. I could see their stern, manly faces now. If! had ever nurtured any notions of nobility, bravery, courage, dignity, or the like, these exalted qualities were embodied in the faces I saw. Clear-eyed, firm-jawed, virile, strong, and proud, they were the living embodiments of every red-blooded boy's childhood fantasy of glorious manhood: heroism incarnate.
That they were going to kill me seemed a thing of piddling consequence. Dear lord, but they were handsome!
Swiftly the battle line closed. I saw the glint of their bold eyes, the sweat on their firm-muscled limbs. I saw their teeth gleaming white, their dark braids swinging free. I heard their full-throated battle cries as they swept down upon me, and I cowered lower, hugging the stones, willing myself to disappear beneath them.
It worked. They did not see me. For even as the nearest combatant reached the place where I huddled, clutching my head and praying to keep it in closest possible contact with my shoulders, he dashed across the stream and all but leaped over me, without so much as a sideward glance in my direction.
The rest of the battle host likewise ignored my presence. They splashed across the stream and raced to meet the warband on the opposite hillside. Only then did I realize I was not the object of their desire.
This insight did not produce the relief it might have done. Any comfort was all too quickly consumed by the fear that I would be killed in the confusion anyway. Dead by freakish mischance is still dead.
The two advancing battle lines closed on one another. The sound of their meeting shivered the air: spear clattering on shield, sword striking helmet, iron on bone, battle-horns blaring, voices bellowing, drums pounding– all of it in the most horrific, deafening clangor. I thought my eardrums would burst.
The impact of the initial collision threw the combatants apart. Some fell instantly, never to rise again. Most, however, swung into combat and the battle commenced in lethal earnest. Blood and spittle sprayed liberally. Horses reared and plunged, flinging dirt into the sky. Men fought, ~iacking viciously at one another with wicked, blood-stained blades.
I could not watch! I could not keep from watching! I :rouched at the water's edge, wide-eyed, yelping with terror as this or that warrior fell to his death with skull riven or throat slashed. I dodged this way and that, trying to stay out Df the way. This became more difficult as the fight progressed, and the ordered lines became a ragged, rangy tangle. Men fought all around me. Just avoiding being trampled by a horse or stabbed by an errant spear, not to mention crushed by a falling body, occupied my utmost attention.
I thought to get hold of a shield to hide behind, and began scanning the nearby hillside. I saw several lying in the grass alongside the bodies of owners who would no longer need them. I ran to the nearest of these and tried to pull it free. The dead man's arm was still engaged and his hand still clutched the shield strap tightly.
I knelt over the body and tore frantically at the binding. I was thus occupied when I felt a heavy hand on my shoulder.
I screamed, and was jerked over backwards. I saw a spear waver in the clear blue sky above me. I threw my hands into the air to ward off the blow and lashed out with both feet at my attacker. I squirmed and writhed, shrieking. To my profound astonishment a voice shouted, «Lewis! Stop it!»
I looked and saw that the form bending over me wore a familiar face. «S-Simon?» I stammered uncertainly. «Simon, is it you?»
Chapter 13
Blood Baptism
It was Simon, naked and painted for battle like all the others, and wearing along, luxurious mustache. «Yes, it's Simon!» he hissed. «Stop kicking! I'm trying to help you!»
I ceased thrashing and sat up. «Simon! I've found you!
What are you doing here? How-«
He grabbed me by the arm and yanked me to my feet. «Get up!»
«Simon, let's get out of here. We've got to-«
He stooped over the body of the dead warrior beside us arid snatched the sword from the corpse's hand, shoving it into mine. «Here, take this.»
«I don't know how to use this thing.» I shoved it back at him.
«You'll learn.» He began tearing at my clothes. «Get that shirt off.»
«Hey! What-«
«You don't want to be seen like this,» he told me tersely.
Reluctantly, I began unbuttoning the shirt. «Simon, I'm really glad I found you.»
«Hurry!» Simon scanned the melee. The battlehost of which he had been a member seemed to be overcoming their opponents, for the battle had quickly pushed beyond us. The heaviest combat was being waged higher up the hill.
I saw this as a perfect chance to creep away unnoticed. «Look, we've got to get away from here. We can-«
«Get it off!» he growled, snatching the shirt from me. «And get rid of this.» He seized my arm and jerked the watch from my wrist. Then he turned and heaved my watch into the stream.
«Wait a minute! You can't-« The timepiece glinted in the air and disappeared among the rocks and the water.
«Follow me!» he cried, and, picking up his spear, dashed once more into the fray.
Reluctantly, I picked up the sword and tried once more, unsuccessfully, to wrest the shield from the dead warrior. «Hurry!» cried Simon. «Try to stay with me!»
I followed without the shield, cursing every step. «This is crazy!» I cried. Simon did not hear me above the battle roar. «Damned crazy!»
He gestured with his spear for me to follow, turned, and flung himself headlong into the fray. He was met almost the same instant by an immense warrior with a round, white-painted shield. The shield was spattered with blood, more red than white now, and the sword in his hand was notched and jagged. The warrior rushed at Simon, swinging the sword wide to strike, bellowing a brutal war cry as he came.
Simon did not hesitate, but leaped to meet his adversary's attack, throwing the butt of the spear up and into the man's groin, ramming it hard. I winced. The warrior lurched back, swiping down with his blade, chopping off the end of Simon's spear.
«Run!» I screamed.
But Simon had no intention of fleeing. He drove into the staggering foe, swinging the spear violently against the blood-stained shield. Even above the tumult of the battle I heard the crack. The shield swung aside. In the same fluid motion, Simon turned the spear and thrust its slim, leaf-shaped blade deep into the man's bare chest. Blood spurted from the wound in a crimson torrent. The painted warrior fell dead to the ground, his mouth gaping in a silent scream.
Suddenly lightheaded, black spots swimming before my eyes, I stumbled to Simon's side. «He tried to kill you,» I mumbled, little knowing what I said. «Is he dead?»
By way of answer, Simon wrested the sword from his opponent's dead hand. Placing a foot on the man's chest, and gripping the sword in both hands, he swung the blade high, then down, quickly, expertly. With a meaty crack, the dead warrior's head rolled free.
I yelped and jumped back. «Simon!»
He picked up the severed head and turned, raising his ~risly trophy on high. I stared in perfect disbelief. Simon threw back his head and laughed. «Here,» he called to me, «make yourself useful.»
With that, he threw the head to me. It hit the ground with an ugly thump and rolled towards me down the hill, flinging blood from the amputated neck. It stopped at my feet where I regarded it with abhorrence, choking back the sour bile that suddenly filled my mouth.
«Pick it up!» shouted Simon. «Let's go!»
With difficulty I tore my eyes from the dead man's empty gaze. «What?»
«Come on,» Simon snapped impatiently. «Pick it up! Let's go!»
I glanced down at the head, and back to Simon. «I can't… I just-«
«Pick the damned thing up!» he snarled savagely. «Now!»
I stooped and clenched a handful of hair. The head was warm and the hair was wet with sweat. I ftlt faint. My throat gagged. I thought I would throw up; my stomach heaved, and my knees went spongy. I stood retching, holding that hideous
prize, dizzy and reeling with fear and revulsion.
Simon ran to join battle once more, but the fighting was over. The defeated were fleeing over the hill, and the victors-the war host I had encountered first-were throwing spears and hurling loud abuse at the rapidly retreating foe. The dead of both warbands lay scattered over the hillside like so many sun-bleached boulders. Crumpled and contorted, limbs askew, they lay in grass of the softest green I had ever seen, under that incredibly blue sky.
Even as I gazed numbly at the carnage around me, I heard a grating cry and looked up to see the carrion birds gathering. Already, they were flocking to their grim and ghastly feast. One big raven swooped low in front of me and landed on the headless corpse of the man Simon had killed. With a loud croak the big bird jabbed its black beak into the oozing chest wound, bit deep and tore away a ragged strip of flesh. The raven tossed its sleek black head and gobbled the meat.
I had to look away. I stumbled after Simon, keeping my eyes away from the butchery in the grass.
Simon had joined the other warriors, who were setting the hills ringing with wild whoops of victory. Some leaped in the air and gestured with theiz spears to the obvious delight of their fellows, who barked with laughter. Simon laughed with them.
The merriment halted abruptly with the arrival of two young men on horseback: one looked to be a warrior and the other an adviser of some sort. But the warrior was dressed in bold checked trousers of gold and green, and a loose red shirt of shimmering satin-like fabric. He wore a large neck ring, or torc, of silver, and a wide belt of silver disks. The hilt of a golden dagger protruded from this belt, and he carried a spear with a silver blade. He, too, flaunted a great, spreading mustache. His hair-a long, full mane of tawny curls– gleamed in the sun.
The other youth was dressed more plainly: brown shirt and trousers of an ordinary cloth, a common leather belt. He wore no finery, and carried no weapons. His only adornment was a fine crimson cloak gathered at one shoulder with an immense silver brooch. He wore his dark hair scraped back tight to his scalp.
Both men were tall and striking, enjoying the ease and grace of youth. And both moved with a command and authority I imagined only Holy Roman emperors possessed:
massive and benevolent, inspiring and daunting at the same time. They would have been at home in any of Europe's royal courts. Even their horses appeared more graceful, more powerful, more beautiful than any of the manifest world's much-vaunted thoroughbreds.
At the appearance of these two, the cheering and gyrating stopped, to be replaced by a general clamor of approval-a hailing of the chief, I reckoned. I crept next to Simon. «That's the king, right?» I whispered.
«No. It's the prince,» he murmured. «Be quiet.»
«Prince who?»
«Prince Meidron,» Simon told me irritably. «Meidron ap Meidryn Mawr. The one with him is Ruadh-he is the prince's bard.»
The prince halted amidst his gathered warriors and dismounted to the acclaim of all. Anyone would have thought he had won the battle singlehandedly, though as far as I could tell he had not lifted a finger. Meidron beamed as his men exalted the victory; they began shouting and hugging and leaping onto one another and pummeling each other on the back. It reminded me of a locker-room celebration after a football championship match. All they lacked was champagne with which to douse themselves.
The cheering continued for a few moments, whereupon, by no sign or word that I could discern, it concluded. The prince issued a few brief words and everyone sprang into action, scattering across the hillside to the bodies of the slain. Their dead comrades were carried with all pomp to the stream and laid out beside the water. Stones were arranged over the bodies and a mound quickly, but carefully, raised.
The enemy dead were left where they had fallen. But each corpse was decapitated and the heads stacked neatly into a pyramid like so many ripe cabbages. Then their weapons were gathered, along with any ornaments-arm rings, torcs, bracelets, and the like. These were placed in a separate heap next to the severed heads.
Simon joined the others in these tasks, and I was left alone for the while. It was then that my presence on the battlefield was noticed and acknowledged for the first time. For, as the warriors were scouring the hillside for booty, one of them saw me standing apart, still holding the head of the man Simon had killed. The brawny fellow strode up to me and regarded me closely.
Not knowing what else to do, I offered him the head. The warrior behaved as if I had breached polite etiquette. His lips writhed back from his teeth in a grimace. He called over his shoulder to the bard, who turned, saw me, and joined the warrior in his scrutiny.
The bard spoke to me in a voice that sounded willowy and guttural at the same time. I could make nothing of the language, but realized that I had encountered it before-in a much altered form, at least. It had much of the same pattern and resonance as modern Welsh.
I stood grinning like an idiot, still holding the head. The bard turned abruptly and called to the prince, who came at once, striding down the hill. With him came several other warriors, and all at once I found myself under the stern examination of the prince and surrounded by naked, blue-stained bodies of powerful warriors-none of whom appeared particularly pleased to see me.
Prince Meidron, like his bard before him, spoke to me in his proto-Gaelic speech. I answered in my own tongue, which caused a small sensation-they murmured excitedly, and pointed at my shoes and trousers. A few reached out to touch my bare skin with fingers extended gingerly. They stared at me, and at the head I held, as if unwilling to believe their eyes at either curiosity.
Simon appeared in the press around me and came to my rescue. He stepped beside me and placed his hand on my shoulder; he pointed to me and to the dripping head in my grasp-jabbering all the while in their strange tongue. I was flabbergasted by his fluency. This was the same Simon whose linguistic prowess began and ended at the wine list on a French menu. Even more astounding, the bard addressed him solemnly. Simon answered quickly, unhesitatingly, keeping his hand on my shoulder all the while.
This colloquy continued for a short while, and then the bard nodded slowly, turned to the prince, and, I suppose, offered his learned opinion. The prince listened for a moment, then raised his hand. The bard fell silent. Meldron pulled on his mustache, scrutinizing me with sharp appraisal, as if making up his mind about me.
«What's happening?» I asked in a desperate whisper.
«Shh!» Simon warned, pinching the side of my neck to make me shut up.
Meidron concluded his rumination then, for he waved Simon aside and moved to stand before me, towering head and shoulders over me. I had no idea what to expect: a sharp dagger thrust in the ribs? kiss of welcome? slap in the face? poke in the eye?
He did none of those things. Instead, he reached out to the band that held the enemy's head, took hold of my wrist, raised it, and held it up. The head dangled grotesquely, dribbling blood from the raw neck stump. The prince spoke some words to all those looking on, which included the entire war host by now, and then he placed his free hand, palm up, beneath the obscenely dripping head.
Blood puddled in his palm. And when he had collected enough, he took it and poured it over me. Disgust and loathing churned inside me; I wanted to vomit. I wanted to die. But beheld me fast by the wrist, so I stood in mute agony while he drizzled blood over my head. Then he lowered his hand and smeared my cheeks with the residue.
My flesh crawled under his touch.
No sooner had the prince finished, than his bard, Ruadh, likewise marked me-reaching out, gathering blood and smearing it down either side of my neck, and over my heart in a bright, warm, crimson streak.
My repugnant baptism was far from finished. For I was made to endure the same appalling courtesy at the hands of the entire gathering, as one-by-one each warrior took blood and marked me with it. Some splotched my pale flesh with designs similar to their own, others simply left a handprint. When they had finished, my upper torso was well-nigh covered in cong
ealing blood. Words cannot express the disgust and abhorrence I endured.
When the last of the warriors had smeared me, Meldron released my wrist, turned to the heap of weapons and ornaments, and selected an item-discarding two gold and several silver objects before settling on a big bronze annband, which he slipped over my hand and pushed onto my upper arm over my biceps. This done, the company erupted in shouts of approval, and I was treated to a solid thumping, as the warriors pummelled me with hearty backsiaps. In all, it was a thoroughly disagreeable experience. If I could have melted into a crack in the ground, I surely would have.
Prince Meldron then began to divide the spoils and plunder among his men. Each warrior received something– an ornament, or a weapon, some trinket of gold or silver. Everyone hoorayed and laughed and made merry over this, generally behaving like rowdy children on Christmas morning.
In no time at all the loot disappeared. Then the prince remounted his horse, cried for his warband to follow, and they all moved off at a run. Simon stepped beside me, grinning. «Well done, brother,» he said, slapping me on the back. «You're in.»
«Well done, hell! It was awful. I thought I was going to puke.» With a shock, I realized I still held the warrior's head. I let the gruesome memento drop to the ground and wiped my sticky hand on my trousers. I shivered with distaste. «I stink. I've got to get cleaned up.»
«Pick it up,» he ordered flatly.
«I'm not carrying that hideous thing around.»
Simon's temper flared. «Stupid! That hideous thing saved your life just now. You are expected to bring it back with you.»
«What?» I demanded shrilly. «You must be out of your mind!»
He pointed at the head, lying face-up in the grass. «That is the enemy tribe's champion you killed-«
«I killed! Wait one minute, Buster, I never killed anyone!
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